


this fear's got a hold

by karples



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Identity Issues, M/M, Mid-life Crisis, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karples/pseuds/karples
Summary: “I assume you won’t be debriefing me,” Patron said.“Call this a... spontaneous vacation.” Fingers steepled, Matron swiveled around in her chair to address him. Patron suspected that she took inordinate pleasure in ordering people about. “Try to enjoy yourself. I may even join you.”(In which Patron, a.k.a. Tiger, has a mid-life crisis. Meanwhile, Helena and Dick conspire against him.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Tiger, Helena Bertinelli/Dick Grayson, Helena Bertinelli/Dick Grayson/Tiger, Helena Bertinelli/Tiger
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	this fear's got a hold

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Great Google Drive migration. Title from Death by White Lies.
> 
> During Grayson, I estimated Tiger to be roughly 31-33, Dick roughly 27, and Helena roughly 30, because I headcanon her as closer to Barbara and Dinah in age. So now, fifteen years later, Tiger’s 46-48, Dick’s 42, and Helena’s 45.
> 
> This fic began with the idea that the stress that these characters endure when they’re younger comes back with a vengeance, and they have to consider the Big Retirement Questions much earlier than an average in-universe civilian would. Like how many bullet holes and bad falls and surgeries can your organs take? And then I slathered a heavy layer of identity issues on top of it.

*

JFK International Airport. Patron passed under the gridwork of sun and shadow, his vision cluttered by haze and the blur of his own eyelashes. Civilians telegraphed their movements so carelessly that he navigated the press of bodies with ease.

At his prime, Patron could have done so without lifting his eyes from his target. But he was no longer in his prime, and old, resurgent injuries warranted an extra degree of caution. Matron, reprising her role at Spyral after a brief stint as Huntress, loved to remind him of it. The plane ticket that she’d placed on his desk was not the first in a series of attempts to nudge him into early retirement.

Patron wouldn’t leave Spyral without her. She knew that. He indulged her anyway. 

“I assume you won’t be debriefing me,” Patron had said.

“Call this a... spontaneous vacation.” Fingers steepled, Matron had swiveled around in her chair to address him. Patron suspected that she took inordinate pleasure in ordering people about. “Try to enjoy yourself. I may even join you.”

Patron found Matron’s contact standing near a vendor that sold accessories. The contact had his head down, examining a watch, but Patron would have recognized him anywhere. It hadn’t been long since they’d last collaborated, and yet Patron felt strange and disarmed, perhaps because they weren’t meeting for a case.

“Agent Thir... Agent Zero,” Patron said.

Agent Zero turned very slightly. Behind him rose the great doors leading out of arrivals, towering and radiant and awash with afternoon light.

“That’s not my name,” said Dick Grayson. Nevertheless, he was smiling.

*

Patron suppressed his sense of nostalgia, his sense of unease. Instead, he watched Grayson unlock the trunk of a modest car to load Patron’s baggage. Patron would have lifted it himself, except that Grayson had insisted on doing it.

Patron’s back may have protested as he retrieved his checked baggage. Grayson could be discerning when he wished to be.

“There,” Grayson said, clapping his hands. He gave Patron an appraising glance. “Gonna tell me what happened to your back?”

“A nine hour flight,” Patron replied. “And your knee?”

Grayson laughed. “Actually, nothing. It just acts up whenever it’s about to rain. Delivers an incredibly reliable weather forecast.” He opened the side door for Patron, bowing grandly. “After you.”

“Do _not_ make me regret this visit.” Patron slid into the passenger’s seat. Grayson rounded the car and settled in with a bounce.

“Finally, _I_ get to drive,” Grayson said. “How the tables have turned!”

Patron clipped on his seatbelt.

“Not in the mood to risk your life today?”

“You forget who you’re talking to.”

“Right, right. Mr. Danger Man.” Grayson revved the engine. The keys bristled with keychains--souvenirs from random jaunts around the world, a few superhero emblems, and a purple spiral that almost escaped Patron’s attention.

Patron didn’t react, though he recognized it. He’d accompanied Matron when she bought it in Palermo. It had been summer: motorbikes gleaming in the alleyways, Matron’s dusky dress snapping in the wind, the sunlight on her brown shoulders as she tranqed two targets from a rooftop. Mission accomplished, they’d gone to dinner early, and gone to bed early, and gone to sleep very, very late.

Patron was unaware that Matron had mailed the keychain to Grayson. In retrospect, it should have been obvious: while Patron and Matron had an open relationship, the only other person who Matron regularly sought out was Grayson.

“So tell me,” Grayson said, cruising at a safe fifty miles per hour, “how many laws did _you_ break the last time you were in a car?”

“None.” The radio crackled to life, tapping into the police feed. Patron rolled his eyes. Grayson looked sheepish.

“Helena drove, didn’t she? How many did _she_ break?”

“Eh, several. More than I believed possible.”

“Woman after my own heart.” Grayson patted the dashboard. Patron noticed that the engine was smoother and quieter than the type that it should have been fitted with. “Want to see something neat?”

“I should have known you’d never outgrow your fancy toys.” Patron folded his arms. The technology was no doubt provided by Oracle or Gotham’s new guardian, the Black Bat, and Patron was grudgingly curious. “Fine. Impress me.”

Grayson winked and hit the gas.

*

A quarter past ten PM, once Patron had settled into the guest room of Grayson’s penthouse, Matron’s voice filled Patron’s earpiece.

“How do you like your vacation?”

“I fail to understand,” Patron told her. “This is not a vacation, you are conspiring against me.”

“You missed him.”

“I did not.”

Matron hummed, pensive. “I owe Dick twenty dollars. He’s right, you still don’t know how to have fun.”

Outside, something small and light struck metal, once, twice. Then it began to rain.

*

The next day, after Patron completed his morning prayers, Grayson emerged from his bedroom walking on his hands. His shirt was untucked and gathered at his armpits. Patron raised an eyebrow and refrained from comment. The scar cutting across Grayson’s hip seemed recent and vicious, brown-pink in the frail six AM glow.

“The swords beneath the couch cushions aren’t yours,” Patron said, by way of greeting.

Grayson faltered, then tucked into a roll. “Damn. I told Robin V not to hide them there. Did you sit on one?”

“You insult me.” 

“Sorry. Gotta admit, the mental image was funny. Find anything else of interest?”

“A set of... special... handcuffs,” Patron said. Grayson blinked and stuttered.

“Uh--crap, I thought I put those--might I ask where?”

“Nowhere, I lied. And now I know that you have one in inventory.” Patron felt smug. Grayson smacked his own forehead. “Why does Robin V hide swords in your apartment?” 

“He says he appreciates my bountiful storage space. That’s Robin V-speak for ‘I miss you’.” Melting into a stretch, Grayson pressed his forehead to an ankle and massaged the knee that had been bothering him yesterday. “He’s also taken over my patrol route. He may be trying to put me out of business.”

“I sympathize.”

Apparently Matron had been keeping Grayson updated, because Grayson evinced no surprise or confusion. “Well, I don’t think Helena’s interested in making you hang up the Hypnos and human intel. She just wants you to be, uh... more behind-the-scenes.”

“Grayson,” Patron growled. 

“Yikes, I can feel your blood pressure spiking.” Grayson leapt to his feet. “Plans, plans. How bad is your jet lag? We could drop by this breakfast place that serves halal food, and I’ll show you the city.”

“I know Manhattan,” said Patron. “I have repatriated stolen art from the Metropolitan Museum. I have scaled the Empire State Building. I have _punched a man_ on the crown of Lady Liberty.”

Grayson ignored him, rummaging in a duffle bag by the kitchen island. He emerged with grapple guns that Patron had only seen in grainy photographs. “We can take the scenic route! You know, vigilante-style. If your back’s fine with it.”

Once more, Patron was terribly tempted. “In this weather?” 

As if on cue, the rain battered the windows like a spray of bullets. Hopeful, Grayson produced two raincoats.

Patron sighed. 

“C’mon,” Grayson coaxed, holding out a raincoat. Up close, Patron could see the faded, feathery scars at Grayson’s temple, the laughter lines in his cheek. Patron’s throat tightened. “Are you warmed up? Let me put on some makeup, and we can get going.”

Patron pinched the raincoat between two fingers. He examined the fabric, a nanotech weave, similar to what Spyral distributed. A competitive part of him wondered which fabric repelled more water. “Makeup, I repeat, in _this_ weather.”

At least they wouldn’t be spotted. Pedestrians seldom looked up, and the storm provided excellent cover. Besides, jump-lines were often mistaken for telephone wires. Two flying men? Merely birds.

Grayson called from the bathroom: “Batwoman--back when she was Batgirl, the one in eggplant--really wanted super durable makeup. Red Robin developed it as a gift for her twenty-first.” He popped back out, scars painted over. “Oh, and I almost forgot--matching rainboots!”

*

Shortly before noon, they dropped back into the living room of Grayson’s penthouse through the skylight. Grayson’s security system would have intrigued Matron, Patron thought. It was intricate and meticulous, the sort of thing that Matron would happily curse and dismantle and rearrange.

Matron preferred to advertise her proficiency in archery. Patron, however, was not ignorant of her strengths, and neither was Grayson. They both knew who had rewritten the Somnus Satellite Network during the fiasco with Dr. Daedalus.

Grayson squirmed out of his wet socks and raincoat, depositing them on the floor. Patron found himself shedding his own clothes and picking up after Grayson. Some things never changed. 

Grayson lobbed a fluffy towel at Patron’s head. His makeup had barely faded, water droplets beading on his skin like scales. 

“You only love me ‘cause I have good tech,” Grayson joked. “And it’s not even entirely mine.” 

Patron wrung the water out of his lungee. He would have preferred anything to this insinuation that he... that he... “I am not loving this raincoat tech of yours.”

“Too much wiggle room if you're in civvies. Normally it goes over bulkier stuff.”

“Your Nightwing suit,” Patron said. There were only a few parts of Matron’s life, Grayson’s life, that Patron didn’t share. It stung Patron to face this particular door, frightened to open it. Patron had no use for fear here. 

Grayson shrugged. “Or my Batman suit.”

“You hate capes.”

“I _hate_ capes,” Grayson agreed, frowning to himself. “But I’m getting slower, and the kids keep nagging me about more armor, and the Nightwing suit just doesn’t work with...”

Grayson gestured vaguely, migrating to the kitchen and pulling out a tupperware container. He peeled back the lid. “Whatever. Life goes on. This’s a family recipe--gúlash,” he added, filling two bowls, then microwaving them. “My mom used to make it. She taught Mr. Haly, who taught me. You said you wanted to try it.”

Patron slung his towel around his neck. “How long have you known I was coming?”

Grayson fumbled the bowls. “Hot, hot, hot,” he muttered. Patron helpfully cleared the counter. “Could you grab two spoons?”

“You can’t hide from me,” Patron said, triumphant, and caught Grayson’s wrist. “You and Matron are _both_ conspiring against me.”

“Pfff, ‘conspiring.’ Have you ever thought about being a _spy_? Your paranoia--”

“--is no match for your mentor’s. How long?” Patron said.

“Not long. So did you like the scenic route?” Grayson asked. His voice and manner were easy and patient, and Patron distantly registered the measured pace of Grayson’s pulse trapped under his thumb, the bump of Grayson’s ulna.

The skin on Patron’s bare shoulders prickled. He kept searching for solid ground, but found only Grayson and an urge to thumb his eyelids shut, kiss them. His lashes were thick, like paintbrushes.

“Surprisingly, yes,” Patron said, retreating. “I did.”

“I told you, I know you.” Grayson’s eyes were very dark and very understanding. He turned Patron’s face toward him with careful fingers. “Hey.”

Patron grumbled. His upper body felt flooded with heat, and blaming Grayson didn’t make it better. “Hello. What is the meaning of this?”

“Nothin’.” 

“Don’t play with me,” Patron said. “Please.”

Grayson studied Patron’s face and nodded. He pressed his soft mouth to Patron’s cheek. “This doesn’t have to be complicated. We don’t have to do anyth--”

Patron leaned over the kitchen island between them and dragged Grayson closer. Grayson tasted like breath mint, his lips cool, his tongue warm. His hands framed Patron’s jaw. Patron’s back complained about the position, though not enough to deter him.

They parted, breathing fast. Grayson’s expression was intent and inquiring. Patron wished, not for the first time, that he were less well-versed in denial. He wished that he had life experience beyond spywork to rely upon. He wished that he were _more_. He inhaled. Exhaled.

“Lunch,” Patron decided. “Prayers. A nap. We shall finish what we started tonight.”

*

They went slow. Patron marveled at Grayson beneath him, above him, laughing and embracing and clinging to him. “Not yet,” Grayson said, over and over, guiding Patron to the edge and easing him down, and Patron cursed and groaned and complied.

He had the ridiculous notion that Grayson was systematically testing and documenting his reactions. The more that he considered it, the less ridiculous it seemed.

Eventually, Grayson straddled Patron’s waist and hitched a leg over his hip. Patron smoothed his hands down Grayson’s sides, anchoring him there.

“For future reference,” Grayson asked, “how do you feel about...?” Patron followed Grayson’s line of sight to the bottle with a plastic pump on the bedstand.

“That was somehow direct _and_ indirect,” Patron said.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Grayson said modestly. Patron looked heavenward. “So the future is now, do you want to? Fuck my ass, that is.”

The profanity startled Patron and went straight to his groin.

“Very much,” Patron admitted, giving Grayson a small squeeze. “If you’re sure.”

“ _Yeah_ , I’m sure. Even prepped beforehand.”

“On your back, then.” Grayson rolled over, and Patron got onto his heels. He slicked his fingers and hovered between Grayson’s legs; Grayson may have prepped, but Patron was a fan of thoroughness. Then, because Patron couldn’t help himself: “Was sex a part of the plan you devised with Matron?”

Grayson widened his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, dissolving into gasps and absurd hiccuping noises when Patron worked in his fingers. “Are you--are you serious? You’re--ahaha--you’re interrogating me while we’re--”

“I don’t care for her interference in this aspect of my life,” Patron said, too harshly. “And I don’t care for your mind games.”

“Oh my god! You’re so suspicious... no, we knew you were interested, but... mm, there, right th...” Patron added another finger, stretching Grayson slowly, and Grayson lost his voice. “...But we’re not that optimistic. _I’m_ not that optimistic. You’re not that predictable.”

A wave of relief washed over Patron. “I should hope not,” he said, feeling embarrassingly transparent. “You, on the other hand...” Patron firmed his grip on Grayson’s side, pinning him, and Grayson groaned, the muscles of his stomach seizing up.

Grayson mustered a mock-glare. “Okay, you’ve made your point--now, if you please...”

Patron let Grayson suffer for a little longer. “If I please?”

“Okay, okay,” Grayson gasped. “Please, I get it, I can’t take what I dish out... You  _ could  _ say I’ve bitten off more than I can chew--” 

“Stop,” Patron said, aghast. “I yield.”

Grayson spread his legs further apart in invitation, and Patron splayed his fingers over the back of Grayson’s thigh. As he pushed in, he tried to decipher the flicker of emotions across Grayson’s face, vulnerable and not quite shy, not quite self-conscious. Hyper-aware, perhaps. Patron rocked forward, careful, and Grayson rocked onto him, and they locked gazes. Unexpectedly, Grayson was the first to look away.

“Move,” Grayson ordered, eyelids fluttering shut, hands roving over Patron’s back, over the sheets. “Move, c’mon, more, I want...”

“So demanding,” Patron said, obliging him. Grayson allowed Patron to stroke his forearms and press his wrists into the mattress. “A chatterbox.”

“I can--I can be good.” Grayson tried for a kiss and missed. His nose slid along Patron’s cheek. “Um--having fun?”

Patron bumped their foreheads together, slipping a hand between them. “Show me how good,” he said, desperately infatuated, desperately attached, and soon Grayson quivered and swore and came into Patron’s palm with a sigh that almost sounded sweet. Patron pulled out. His ears rang with the throb of his own heartbeat. Brow smooth and unworried, Grayson grinned and brought Patron off.

Patron’s head was weightless. He reeked of sex and sweat. He had no energy to care. 

“No pillow talk?” Grayson said.

“Spare me,” Patron replied. After their closeness, their physical distance seemed unnatural, their limbs unwieldy and inelegant. Patron tossed the condom into the trash. Grayson took Patron by the elbow, and Patron moved to cover Grayson with his own body, his chest to Grayson’s back. The curve of Grayson’s ass, snug against Patron’s pelvis, would have distracted lesser men, but Patron was not a lesser man.

Patron also had a refractory period.

Grayson was content to let Patron spoon and kiss him. Patron didn’t know who it comforted more. “Huh,” Grayson said. “You’re a cuddler. A proactive cuddler. A ‘cuddles first’ cuddler.”

Patron snorted. “And are you a ‘cuddles second’ cuddler?”

“Usually a ‘cuddles first’ cuddler. You surprised me.”

“It was unintentional, but I’ll take the credit.” Patron traced Grayson’s floating ribs, brushing over scar tissue, silky and thick.

“That one’s from chopper shrapnel,” Grayson said, as if he were discussing the weather. “Some skirmish with Two-Face.”

Patron stared. “ _This_ is your idea of pillow talk?”

“Sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Good, ‘cause I... I... never mind.” Grayson grew quiet. He had Patron’s hand pinned beneath him, curled over his hip, and Patron had the abrupt impression that Grayson had startled himself as well. Then Grayson twisted around and grinned, dimpling deeply. 

“Killed the mood, didn’t I? Can I make it up to you somehow? Stroke your ego, do your laundry, give you a massage...”

“A massage is fine. You’re bad for my back,” Patron informed him.

“Well, Tig, if you want a next time, we’ll try another position.”

Patron chose to focus on the inconsequential. “That is _not_ my name.”

“What, Tig, Tiger? Tony?” 

Patron scowled at Grayson. 

“Oh, c’mon. You want me to call you Patron in _bed_?”

It left an inexplicably bitter taste on Patron’s tongue, but he had no alternatives. “That... will suffice.”

“Wait. You’re kidding, right?” Grayson rose onto his elbows, clocking Patron in the chin. “Sorry! Again. Sorry,” he said, contrite, as Patron swatted him. “You’re kidding, that’s so... impersonal. Patron's your callsign.”

“As was the Tiger King of Kandahar.”

Grayson hesitated. “Okay, true. I guess Tiger always felt more like a _name_. More connected to your--”

“I have other ways of connecting to my heritage,” Patron snapped, having anticipated Grayson’s response. “The Tiger King is not the same as Robin. Understand? It is not a pet name from a beloved mother, it is not a hero’s name. It refers to a sharpshooter and a mercenary-spy.”

For a moment, they assessed each other in silence. Patron suddenly needed Grayson to see how their lives ran parallel to one another, once or twice tangent and then never again. He needed Grayson to say that they would never work.

“Sorry,” Grayson said, his tone light but sincere. “I misspoke. Feel free to kick my ass, uh, Patron.”

“I appreciate and decline the offer,” Patron said. He felt like he was losing anyway, barreling headfirst toward some bleak destiny. 

Without touching Patron, Grayson lay back down. He was giving Patron a chance to direct the conversation and their relationship, to disengage if he so desired. The choice itself was a burden.

“Perhaps this is how we differ,” Patron said quietly. He wound an arm around Grayson’s waist, and Grayson relaxed, shifting to accommodate him. “Robin, Nightwing, Batman--yes, even Agent Zero and Thirty-Seven--you consider them to be pieces of you. You keep them, but not all of us do. There are places we leave and never return to. There are people we forget how to be. We lose, we abandon, we willingly relinquish. Sometimes, we take only what we can carry.”

Grayson tipped his head back onto Patron’s chest. “Are you talking about your childhood...?”

“Hush,” Patron said, covering Grayson’s mouth. Grayson’s breaths were even and unhurried in the cage of Patron’s fingers; Grayson reached up, not to dislodge him, but to hold him in place.

“For what it’s worth,” Grayson murmured, “I liked Tiger too.”

Patron knew that Grayson didn’t mean the name. He said at last: “I am not as I once was. I’ve... changed.”

*

As Patron discovered, Grayson’s knee ache was no simple knee ache. In the morning, Patron had to carry him to the living room, where Grayson challenged Patron to a round of chess.

“Given your disregard for your physical well-being, it’s a wonder you aren’t dead,” Patron said, scathing.

“Aww, it’s not that bad.” Hunting for gaps in Patron’s defense, Grayson squinted at the chessboard. “It really _is_ an old injury, it just keeps comin’ back for more. Besides, I had surgery three months ago.”

“And returned to the field after a bare minimum of rest?”

“You and Helena are peas in a pod,” Grayson complained, cornering Patron’s bishop with his rook. Patron scowled at Grayson, who smiled faintly. “She visited after the procedure to lecture me too.”

Patron nodded. “While you were medicated and unable to escape.”

“Spies,” Grayson sighed.

“Vigilantes,” Patron retorted.

Grayson’s smile widened. “Helena’s both.”

Patron grunted and took a knight. “The original Batman never taught her to be a human ballistic shield.”

“Okay, no, we’re not going there,” Grayson said, pointing at Patron. Patron felt a misplaced surge of vindication at Grayson’s annoyance. “He taught me how to take a hit, how to land a hit, and how to dodge, all right? He taught me the most anyone could.”

“He also taught you how to push yourself.”

“I mean. Okay, a little.”

It was Patron’s turn to point at Grayson. “Do you hear yourself? Do you hear yourself, you reckless, hypocritical...”

“Checkmate,” Grayson said. 

Patron sacrificed his bishop. Grayson snickered. “I will not be deterred,” Patron warned. “We _will_ be discussing your knee again--”

The doorbell buzzed. Grayson swiveled about on the couch, and Patron frowned at his confusion.

“You weren’t expecting anyone,” Patron said.

“Nope. Told the local busybats to mind their own business, so they shouldn’t...” Grayson stood, his limp less pronounced than it had been earlier. Still concerned, Patron positioned himself an arm’s length away. Grayson flapped a hand at him. “Don’t think I don’t see you.”

“Because I am not concealing myself.”

“You’re so wound-up. It’s probably just a lost pizza delivery person, or...” Grayson peered through the peephole and froze. “Or even better.”

“Who?” Patron demanded.

The door bounced against the adjacent wall as Grayson threw it wide and pounced. “Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” he said happily. His excitement contained a sweet, almost boyish quality, lingering after all these years.

A familiar hand crept over Grayson’s shoulder, gathering and smoothing the fabric over Grayson’s spine.

“Missed me?” Matron said. Though the question had been directed to the room at large, Matron’s eyes found Patron and ran him through, arresting him, piercing him.

“Uh, _yes_ ,” Grayson said, evidently robbed of his vocabulary.

Patron didn’t move. “Yes,” he answered, searching Matron’s face under the wide brim of her sunhat. He scoured every inch with an intensity that he didn’t fully understand, as if expecting to find--find her changed, find himself changed beyond recognizability.

Ludicrous. For a moment, Matron regarded Patron before she allowed Grayson to distract her with a kiss on the chin. After another kiss, a short and precise peck on the lips, Matron arched an imperious brow at Patron and said, “Did you think I’d abandon you to this tragic excuse of a human being?”

Grayson tried to push her out the door. “I’ve changed my mind, invitation withdrawn.”

“Misery loves company,” Patron replied, escorting Matron over the threshold. Matron wobbled a little as she stepped out of her shoes; her wine-purple nails pricked the skin over Patron’s collar, and Patron steadied her. 

Matron leaned into him and surprised him with a kiss as well, exorcising the splinter of anxiety in Patron’s chest. He hadn’t realized that it was there, purposeless, pointless. Of course this would still be the same.

The usual flavor of Matron’s favorite coffee, her fragrant perfume, and the flat taste of lipstick filled Patron’s mouth. “Perhaps not while you are balancing on one heel, Matron,” Patron said.

“No, no, none of that,” Matron said, emphatic. Her other heel toppled onto its side, and she smiled at him, close-lipped but warm. “Here, I am Helena.”

Patron paused for a beat too long.

“Helena,” he said. “Of course.”

Being on the receiving end of Helena’s disapproval felt akin to being stabbed by many knives. Fortunately, Patron had developed an immunity to it and ignored the look that passed between Helena and Grayson. _Conspiring_.

“Oh, that reminds me! I need to get today’s mail,” Grayson said, in an obvious bid to give Patron and Helena some space. “How about I take care of that while Patron--” At this, Helena folded her arms. “--while _Patron_ helps you get settled in.”

“Fantastic,” said Helena.

“Of course,” said Patron.

Exeunt Grayson. The uneven sound of his footsteps--the knee must have acted up again--faded down the outer hallway. The elevator chimed. Helena said nothing, so Patron held his peace, allowing the silence to build like an urgent physical pressure.

Circling Patron in stockinged feet, Helena subjected him to a huntress’s sharp, critical gaze. Then she hooked a finger in the upturned collar of Patron’s turtleneck and gently folded it down.

Her expression softened. “What’s this ‘Patron’ business?”

The pressure broke as suddenly as a wave reaching its crest. “Is that not who I am?”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Patron shook his head, not in refusal but frustration. “Explain.”

“You want us to call you Patron.”

“Is that not who I _am_?”

“So you’re happy to be Patron when I am Helena and Agent Zero is Dick.”

With great difficulty, Patron answered, “Yes.”

Helena scoffed, settling a hand over Patron’s heart. Its weight was comforting; her words were not. “Such a deplorable lack of self-awareness. I can’t believe you’re satisfied with that. I thought you wanted the whole world.”

“I might have an ego, but even I wouldn’t dare to ask for the whole world.”

“You could have more of it, if you tried.” Quieter, Helena added, “I don’t understand why you don’t. How often are we all together in the same place, unimpeded by other obligations?”

Seeking to appease her, Patron tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “You’re asking me to be who I am not.”

“No. You can be anyone you want to be. I’m asking you to show us who that is.”

The elevator chimed again. Though the timing was too convenient to be anything but premeditated, neither Helena nor Patron pointed it out; Grayson must have had his reasons for interrupting when he did.

“Guess what!” Grayson announced, sauntering back into the apartment with the mail pinned under one arm. “Cassie sent us a gift. Do us the honors?” 

He passed a thin envelope to Helena, who slit the flap in one elegant, precise movement and withdrew three tickets.

_The New York City Ballet._


End file.
